


E.I.D.

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Boxers, Briefs, and Other Shorts [17]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Unusuals
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Marriage Counseling, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2018-12-10 20:16:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11699148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Because Jeremy Renner was in a little show called The Unusuals and this was an actual episode, and because the fandom demanded undercover couples counseling!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdamantSteve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/gifts).



Level Six Agent of SHIELD, Phillip J. Coulson does not panic. 

He's known for his calm, his cool, his dry humor and deadpan reaction to unexpected changes in plan. He can keep a straight face in the most dire of circumstances, a skill that serves him well as he enters the office of his best friend and boss Nicolas Fury, because right now, inside, he _is_ panicking. 

This has to be a joke. It's exactly the sort of joke someone like Fury would play, the kind where he's completely fed up with Phil's pining over a certain specialist and has decided to take matters into his own hands. If that's the case, it's easily remedied; Phil has already written up a five page report on why commissioning SHIELD resources for such an endeavor would be a colossal waste of time and money. 

If it's not though, if this is a legitimate operation that just so happens to satisfy the underhanded motives of a certain one-eyed Director... 

Well then. 

Phil is well and truly screwed. 

And not the fun, bend-over-and-hold-on-to-something type of screwed. 

Nodding to Debbie, Fury's middle-aged, unflappable dragon of a secretary, he slips past her and into the man's office before he can be stopped, closing the door behind him and locking it for good measure. 

"Care to explain to me exactly what this is?" he asks in his driest tone, tossing the Missions Brief lightly onto the Director's desk before taking a seat in the more comfortable of the two visitor's chairs. 

The man doesn't spare him the slightest glance, still typing away at his computer one key at a time, hunt-and-peck style, but Phil is used to his tactics and doesn't let it phase him. He makes himself as comfortable as possible in the straight-backed instrument of torture Fury keeps for chastising errant agents, smoothing his tie down his chest and crossing his ankle over his knee, prepared to settle in for the long haul if need be. 

Hell, he's ready to go toe to toe with his friend if he has to, so great is the thundering of his heart and the dark cloud of alarm at the back of his mind. 

With a final click of his mouse, Fury turns to face him, leaning back himself and touching his fingertips together, peering at him over his hands with a gaze far more intense than it has any right to be, given the man only has the one eye. 

"What seems to be the problem Agent?" he asks flatly, and shit, Phil knows that tone. 

This isn't going to be good. 

"Operation Prenup?" he demands, because while Fury _does_ have a sense of humor, contrary to popular opinion, it wasn't usually so blunt. "Surely you can't be serious about this." 

"As serious as a heart attack Coulson," the man answers, and the sick, swooping feeling in the pit of Phil's stomach doubles. Fury studies him for a moment before reaching into his filing cabinet, pulling out a manila folder twice as thick as the one Phil had slapped down and tossing it across the desk. "There have been at least seven break-ins at three different SHIELD-owned properties in the last three months, and I damn well want to know what the hell is going on." 

Grabbing the folder, Phil flips it open and quickly thumbs through the file, skimming the summary sheets and taking note of the addresses listed. That was one question answered at least – this really was a legitimate op, which actually makes the situation that much worse. 

"Nothing missing?" he queries, still paging through. "No defacement of property?" 

"Nothing," Fury confirms. "No damage, no _real_ signs of forced entry, no theft that we can discern." 

"And you really think a SHIELD agent would be foolish enough to attempt to steal SHIELD secrets from other SHIELD agents?" 

"Dunno, but that's what I need you to find out." 

Phil sighs, closes the file and pinches the bridge of his nose. A real op then, one with real-life consequences if it fails. All seven apartments listed in the report belonged to married or common-law couples, of which at least one member in each was an active-duty SHIELD agent. None of them were that high up in the hierarchy, and while agents certainly did take their work home with them on occasion, none of the targets were involved in anything all that top-secret. 

Still, Phil understands the severity of the situation, understands Fury's anger. He _is_ angry too – Phil can see it simmering away beneath his leather jacket. It's the principle of the thing; when someone signs on with SHIELD they _do_ sign a prenup of sorts. They're giving their life to the organization, marrying into the family so-to-speak, and there are certain expectations and standards of behavior that come along with it. Break that contract and an agent is let go, with prejudice. 

"You're sure about this?" 

"Of course I'm not," Fury scoffs, flicking his wrist in a dismissive motion Phil is all too familiar with. "But the good doctor is the common denominator, the only link we can find between the break-ins, except for the fact that they all occurred on SHIELD property. That's why I'm sending in you and Barton." 

Yes, him and Barton. 

That's exactly the problem. 

"Jeffries is a _marriage counselor,"_ Phil points out, trying and failing to keep his voice level. "He does _couples counseling."_

"Exactly," Fury replies, leveling him with his most unimpressed stare. "Christ, if any two agents in this organization can pull off a fake relationship it's you two. Hell, this is an _intelligence agency_ and half the people here already think you're secretly married. The other half just think you're banging each other after-ops in the back of the quinjet." 

"Yes, thank you, as if the betting pools weren't reminder enough," Phil snarls, his cheeks going warm. No doubt the tips of his ears have gone bright red, a tell that he's never been able to get a handle on and one that only the subject of SHIELD Specialist Clinton F. Barton can bring out of him. "You know neither is the case." 

"A damn shame if you ask me," Fury grumbles. "Lord knows you two have been ass-over-tea-kettle in love long enough by now." 

"You're delusional," Phil mutters. 

Halfway delusional anyway. 

His more amorous feelings for the archer are far less secret than he might wish they were. Hell, if the pools are to be believed, forty-five percent of his colleagues have at least a hundred dollars riding on him cracking and bending Barton over the nearest horizontal surface the next time the sniper mouths off over the comms. 

Only Clint himself seems to be entirely without a clue, and if that isn't a glaring hint Coulson doesn't know what is. 

In a way he supposes he and Barton _are_ the perfect pair to send in on this op. Excluding Clint's lack of reciprocal feelings, they _do_ know each other very well. He'd been the one to recruit the archer seven years ago, and has been the man's exclusive handler for the last four. It had taken them all some time to realize that Coulson was one of the few who was capable of getting around Barton's authority issues and getting the very best out of him, though if you asked Phil it only took some decent human kindness and a well-earned dose of respect. Together they could easily pull off the kind of undercover mission Fury had proposed in the file he'd left on Phil's desk. 

Only problem was, it would probably break Phil's heart. 

"I want it done Coulson," Fury rumbles, turning back to his computer screen, a blatant dismissal. "Jeffries is the only link between all of the apartments that have been broken into. If he _is_ using his sessions with our agents to attempt to locate SHIELD information I want him stopped, by the end of the year." 

"The end of the..." 

"Dismissed Agent." 

Shit. 

Shit, shit, _shit._

Feet cold, fingers numb, Phil grabs the two file folders and flees.

**AVAVA**

Fury watches his best friend turn a neat about-face and hides a smirk behind a scowl.

This shit couldn't have worked out more to his advantage if he had engineered it himself. 

Oh, to be fair to Coulson, the break-ins do need to be investigated, but that's just another reason that those two are the perfect agents for this op. Dr. Jeffrey Jeffries may or may not be hunting up SHIELD secrets to sell to alternative agencies, but the man is an undeniably good counselor. He's been the saving grace of several SHIELD couples throughout his tenure with the organization, and had been the only one smart enough, objective enough, and intrusive enough to break up several others. 

He'd seriously consider showing leniency if Jeffries manages to get his two best agents straightened out. 

Perhaps not the best metaphor, he muses, considering the fact that he's sending two _men_ to couples counseling under the guise of relationship problems. 

Though Coulson could certainly stand to work on his intimacy issues. 

Yet another reason Barton and Coulson are the perfect agents to send in on this op. Coulson is high enough on the ladder to present a tempting target and Barton's got the eye to catch any tell-tale patterns that might emerge from this little charade. If Jeffries _is_ the one breaking into his agents' homes looking for secrets Fury is going to destroy the man; if not, well, no harm, no foul.

Either way, he wins. 

Clicking into SHIELD's secure housing-allotment site, he picks out a nice little one-bedroom apartment on the top floor of the building on eighth, the one that's only been hit twice since all this started. He backdates the lease six months, puts both Coulson and Barton's names on the contract. 

Settling back in his chair, he considers the look that had crossed Coulson's face when he realized that this could be a long-term op, potentially months at one session a week, and smiles. 

Oh yes, this one could be fun.


	2. Chapter 2

Agent Phillip J Coulson of SHIELD has been Clint Barton's sole handler for four years. As a Specialist, his name is still swimming around the open pool, which means that he can be pulled in on ops that other handlers are in charge of, but in such a case the mission would first have to be signed off on by Coulson, and he reserved the right both to deny the request and to make changes to mission parameters as he saw fit. 

Given all of this information, Clint is surprised when he wakes up to find a message blinking on his tablet that notifies him of a new mission assignment having come through the night before. He can't remember the last time he'd found out about a mission any other way but straight from his handler's mouth, and the flashing red flag on the screen puts a strange sense of dread in the pit of his belly. 

Pulling himself upright, he untangles himself from the sheets and kicks them down to the end of the bed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. The barracks is nearly silent outside his bunkroom door – it's too early for many to be up and about that aren't away on active mission – but Clint likes to get his range time in before HQ wakes up. Contrary to popular opinion, as long as he gets a pot or two of coffee in him, Clint _can_ be a morning person. 

It just... takes him a while. 

Speaking of coffee, he's got his own little hotplate on the bedside table, one of the few personal touches he'd ever bothered with for his nine by twelve bunk. He only needs to lean over to flick it on and start it brewing, doesn't even need to leave his bed, and he's gotten so used to the habit he can do it in his sleep, which is nice because then he wakes up to the smell of brewing beans. 

Only that stupid, blinking light got to him first this morning. 

As the coffee brews he sits with the tablet in his lap, reads his emails and plays some bootleg Candy Crush while he waits for it to finish percolating. The message blinks at him continuously but Clint is the master of avoidance and his instincts are honed to a killing edge. He knows nothing good will come of whatever it has to say to him, doesn't trust this change in routine, but it drives him into a state of anxious distraction and by the time the coffee's actually done he's showered and dressed and got his boots on his feet. 

By the time he's gulped down two mugs of steaming hot caffeine goodness he can't put it off any longer. 

It's from Fury. 

"Fuck," he mutters, setting the mug aside and opening the file. 

New mission, Operation Prenup, deep cover Level Seven. 

Shit, that's above him and Coulson both, and since it's marked Eyes Only for no one but the two of them, that means only Fury himself is going to know what's going on. 

They're... they're investigating a mole inside of _SHIELD!_

Scrolling back up to the top of the file, having picked out the most important information on his first skim, Clint settles back against the edge of the bed to actually read it through, immediately catching the pattern that stands out amongst the SHIELD apartments that have been broken into. Sure enough, three pages in, each of the couples who had been targeted were seeing the same counselor, a Dr. Jeffrey Jeffries. 

Clint snorts, because really? 

It's either the perfect name for an AIM goon or just really, really sad. 

So, Fury thinks one of SHIELD's shrinks is stealing secrets huh? Interesting. Clint always knew he was smart for mistrusting those guys. Anyone who thinks they're so well adjusted that they should be giving life lessons to other people _has_ to be messed up somehow, couple of skeletons in their closet... 

Wasn't Hannibal Lecter a psychiatrist? 

He is _so_ bringing this up the next time Coulson tries to bully him into his annual psych eval. 

Though, come to think of it, he's never run across good ole Jeff. 

He'd definitely remember a name like that. 

Why hadn't he... 

Oh. 

Couples Counseling, _duh._

That makes... 

Wait. 

"Oh no," he breathes, his heart skipping a beat as his fingers tighten around the edge of the tablet, scrolling frantically to the bottom. "Oh _nonononono..."_

Oh yes. 

There it is. 

Blinking at him in bright, rip-your-heart-out-and-smash-it-to-pieces red. 

**Mission Objective: Determine culpability and motive of target in recent break-ins via undercover infiltration ie: Agents Coulson and Barton seeking counseling through one Dr. Jeffrey Jeffries, MD, PhD.**

Double fuck. 

How is he supposed to... he can't... 

"Shit!" 

Cursing loudly enough that Stevens, the Level Three next door starts pounding on their shared wall, Clint tosses the tablet onto the bed and starts to pace, but only makes it three laps before he's scrabbling his cell phone off the charger, punching in the number he isn't supposed to know. This op might be Level Seven Eyes Only, but if Fury thinks Natasha isn't going to hear about this he's even dumber than Clint pretends to be. 

"I'm _Dark,"_ Nat growls, and from the tone of her voice Clint can tell she's been sleeping, which narrows down the list of places she could be that he's keeping tucked away at the back of his mind. "What?" 

"Nat," he chokes, and he sounds far more strangled than he'd expected himself to sound. "Nat, I am so screwed." 

"Where are you?" she asks, and he can hear her sitting up on something, a cot maybe, instantly clear and alert. "Clint..." 

"No, no, I'm... I'm ok," he mumbles, "I... I'm in HQ. Nat... tell me you didn’t know about this." 

She doesn't, he knows she doesn't, even if she's been threatening to knock his and Coulson's heads together for more than a year. If this was her, either getting fed up or genuinely trying to help, she would be laughing at him already. 

"Clint, what's going on?" 

"Fury's got me and Coulson on an op. Level Seven, undercover stuff." 

"You shouldn't be telling me this," she scolds. "What's the problem? You're uncover work leaves a lot to be desired but Coulson's is good. You've worked together before." 

"Not like this," he says, shaking his head, fighting down panic. "Not like... Nat, he's sending us to _couple's counseling!"_

There's silence for all of a few seconds, complete silence as his heart pounds in his chest, and then Nat's barking a laugh like it's the funniest thing she's heard, that heartless Russian bitch. 

Clint hangs up on her. 

She calls back less than a minute later and is all apologies and a perfectly professional tone of voice, and he knows she didn't mean it cruelly, knows that she's justified in her reaction, but that doesn't make it any easier to hear. She's bore witness to every painful, awkward moment of Clint's crush on his handler – _unrequited love, Barton_ – and knows exactly how deep his feelings run. She's been trying to get him to man-up for years, but where Clint is perfectly willing to risk life and limb, risking his heart is a different story. 

"I take it back," she says, and he foolishly thinks he's about to get an apology. "You've been preparing for this role for years." 

"It's _not funny_ Nat!" Clint groans, flopping back onto the bed. "What am I gonna do?" 

"What do you mean? You're going to go undercover as Coulson's partner and you're going to do just fine. I assume you're going in to investigate the counselor." 

"Yeah. I dunno, it's some Jeffrey Jeffries; ever heard of him?" 

"Hunter and Morse see him," she muses, and Clint is surprised because he'd dated Bobbi for a few weeks several years ago, always thought he was the problem in the relationship. "Lance likes him – I'm surprised he's found himself in Fury's crosshairs. From what I hear he does good work." 

"Nat I don't _care_ – what am _I_ gonna do?" 

"Clint. Listen to me." 

His mouth shuts with a snap – he's in for it now. 

"Don't you think this has gone on long enough?" she asks, and that's... not what he'd expected at all, this gentle, hopeful question. "There's a reason you're freaking out right now. Clint, I want you to be _happy."_

"I _am_ happy," he protests. 

"But you could be so much happier if you would just take the chance." 

Clint doesn't answer, his heart heavy. 

"Do your job," she instructs firmly, "Be smart and be thorough. If this guy needs to be taken out, take him out. But Clint, what better opportunity are you going to have than this? To figure things out, to have some questions answered? None. I _promise_ Little Bird, if you take this risk it will be worth it." 

"You can't know that," he whispers. "You don't even believe in love."

"I never said that Clint," she argues. "I said that love was for children, for the people in this world with hearts big enough to see beyond the hurt and the pain and brave enough to reach out for someone else. You _are_ a child Clint, and most of the time that's not an aspect of your personality that I particularly enjoy, but in this? In this I think you're the very best of us." 

His eyes are stinging. 

His heart is thumping heavy in his chest and it's still too early for this, too far away from wherever the hell Nat is. 

"I love _you_ Nat," he chokes, and he hears her chuckle. 

"I know Clint. And... I do care for you, as best I can. You know that, don't you?" 

"I know." 

He knows. He knows she does. He also knows that she's acutely aware of what all this means to him, what it's doing to him, because she wouldn't be saying any of this out loud otherwise. Far from reassuring him, it actually makes his anxiety worse, because clearly this one is making her spidey senses tingle. 

"Nat..." 

"No, enough Clint," she scolds. "It's time to do something about this. It's killing you, whether you know it or not, like a slow bleed. You won't ever get a better chance than this one to really feel him out, to tell him how you feel, with a professional right there to help." 

"You don't like the shrinks any more than I do," Clint deflects. "What if he doesn't..." 

"He _does,"_ she sighs, and it's something she's told him a hundred times but something that he still doesn't believe. "God Clint, how can you be this blind? Ok, fine, if somehow the world turns itself inside out and Coulson actually rejects you, Jeffries can put you back together enough to say 'I told you so,' all right?" 

"I don't..." 

"Tell him, don’t tell him, it's your decision," she huffs, "But I can't give you any more advice on this." 

And then she's gone. 

Groaning, Clint flumps back on the bed, dropping his phone onto his face in the process. 

He can't care. 

He's a drama queen about this, he knows that, but in the six or seven years he's been in love with Phil Coulson he hasn't figured out how to stop. He hasn't figured out how to... to tell him, to man up, to move on. Nothing. He's just stuck, stuck in this cycle of mooning after a man that's way out of his league, that would be justified in turning him down for a hundred different reasons, not the least of which being that he's still Clint's Superior Officer. 

It would never work. 

Now he has to go into couples counseling and sit there while a potential enemy of SHIELD tries to put together a relationship that never existed in the first place. 

He supposes Nat's right. 

This could either go really well, or very, very badly.


	3. Chapter 3

Phil Coulson prides himself on being a rational, logical human being. 

He refuses to live in a state of self-denial, or to delude himself into thinking that anything good will come of all this. 

Yes, he allows himself certain... daydreams in his idle hours – he refuses to call them fantasies – but he's scrupulous about staying cognizant of the fact that that is _all_ they are, ruthless about keeping his heart quiet and his head in the game. Yes, he's been falling for Clint Barton for a long time now, but the archer is way out of his league and has never shown any _real_ interest in him. He flirts of course, but he flirts with everyone, and anyway, it had always been more about testing boundaries, testing _Phil_ than anything else. 

Regardless, there's no stopping this mission. 

It's... it's like a train wreck about to happen, that you can't look away from, and he knows that's a little melodramatic but he can't help it, can't even really get his head on straight around this mess and he... 

It's too much. 

It's nonsense – he's Senior Agent Phillip J Coulson of SHIELD, has faced down criminals and monsters, aliens and villains. Jeffries is just a man, just a human man who is quite possibly in over his head, trying to spy on an organization full of spies. He's just a _therapist,_ and Phil has talked to a dozen therapists before. He's even gotten some good direction from them once or twice, but more often than not, on the whole, he's found them easy enough to manipulate, easy enough to stonewall. 

He finds that comforting now. 

So he makes himself a promise as he heads down to SHIELD's employee barracks. 

Under no circumstances whatsoever will he let his true feelings for Clint Barton slip during this ridiculous farce of an undercover op. 

It wouldn't be fair to Clint, and really, it was more likely than not to end in disaster. How cruel would he have to be to do that; to himself, to the archer? It was bad enough that he was going to get a taste of something he'd wanted so badly for so long – to take his relationship with the man to the next level, to experience a different kind of intimacy. 

This was going to suck. 

So. 

He was going to treat it like an op, and _only_ an op, do what he had to do to determine Jeffries' culpability in this whole mess as quickly as possible and be done with it. He's not going to panic, not going to slip, not going to absolutely hate himself by the end of this. 

In this, he's determined. 

It's determination that has him knocking on Clint's bunkroom door, two strong raps, everything all right here. He doesn't wait for a response, just opens the door and steps inside, finds Clint standing in the middle of his tiny room surrounded by four large, half-packed cardboard boxes. 

"What..." 

"Oh, hey Phil," Clint mumbles distractedly, spinning in a circle like a dog chasing his tail. "Where... ah gotcha!" 

Phil blinks, fights to control a blush when Clint dives beneath the edge of his tiny twin bed, ass swaying as he wriggles underneath and comes back up with a dusty purple hoodie. 

"What are you doing specialist?" he manages to ask, pleased when his voice comes out flat and even, doesn't creak or break. 

"Packing, duh," Clint shrugs, shaking out the hoodie and tossing it into an open box. "Didn't you get the memo?" 

He had, he just hadn't realized Clint would receive it too. He always delivered Clint's missions personally, read him through the pre-op files and the paperwork himself before sending him out with any other handler. He's not complaining of course - this time at least he's relieved that he doesn't have to do the explaining. He's certain if he'd tried he would've tripped and stumbled all over himself, and yet it throws him, makes the whole thing feel... off. 

"I'd thought you would be more... resistant to this," he says hesitantly, watching Clint crouch down amongst the boxes and start closing the flaps. 

"What, getting out of the barracks?" he asks, wrestling with a roll of packing tape and somehow getting it wound up all around his wrists and forearms in a tangle, happily oblivious to Phil's inner turmoil. "Nah. Besides, it makes sense right? If Jeffries is the one breaking into SHIELD apartments, he's probably been casing them, keeping tabs on our agents." 

"Very likely," Phil allows, watching with a sickening mixture of amusement and trepidation as Clint untangles himself and starts strapping his boxes shut. "Fury was smart to backdate the lease." 

"Hey, anything's gotta be better than this shoebox, right?" 

"You're Level Four now, you could have gotten an apartment last year," Phil points out, picking his way between the boxes to sit down on the corner of Clint's stripped mattress. 

He's watching the man closely, slightly confused by his behavior. The sniper is almost manic in his movements, jittery, and he's talking fast and avoiding eye contact. Nothing too alarming – it _is_ Clint after all – but under the circumstances, he seems... nervous. 

"Nah," he mutters, shaking his head and finishing the last box. "I have it on good authority that I'm not mature enough to take care of myself like a real adult." 

"Natasha?" 

"Yup." Standing up again, he brushes off his knees and offers Phil a bright, cheery smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Sorry Boss. You'll just have to put up with me." 

"Par for the course then," he replies, refusing to tap his fingers on his knee, to lick his lips, to give away any of the miniscule tells only Clint can bring out of him. 

The blonde chuckles, rubs the back of his neck. 

"Yeah, I guess. Anway, I'm all set to go here. I mostly come and go by the vents so we probably don't have to worry about anybody spilling the beans that I've actually been living here for the last six months." 

"This is all of it?" Phil asks, only a little surprised - _and_ a little unhappy - that everything Clint owns fits into four standard moving boxes. 

"What, you thought I'd have a futon and a curio cabinet full of creepy, collectible plates? Nope – me, I've always traveled light. Besides, at least this way if anybody sees us hauling it out they'll just think I'm taking the last of it." 

"Wait, you're giving it up completely?" he asks, startled. "Clint you don't have to do that." 

"Don't worry about it Coulson," the younger man says with a grin, shoving a box into his arms. "I'm not that attached to the place, and besides, it's not like they're not all exactly the same. I told HR I was moving out a hundred percent this afternoon – I can always move into another one after this is all over." 

Bumping Phil's shoulder, he offers him a grin that's far more open, far more honest than the previous one. 

"And hey, if this works out maybe I could actually look into getting a real place, off base and everything. You've got an apartment, right? You can show me how it works – like a trial run. Teach me how often I'm supposed to vacuum, how to unclog the garbage disposal..." 

"I have a landlord for that," Phil says dumbly, because oh god, he's going to be playing house with Clint Barton. 

"So have you seen the place yet?" 

Phil blinks. 

"No," he answers, mentally shaking himself back to attention. "Thought I'd grab you first. It is our apartment after all." 

"Aw, you gonna carry me across the threshold Sir?" 

"You offering to be the wife in this relationship Barton?" 

"Whatever makes you happy sugar," he says with a wink, and Phil nearly chokes on his tongue as Clint juggles the last of the three boxes, gets them up into his arms and kicks his door open so they can step out into the hallway. 

"Ok, rule number one," he determines, pulling the door closed on the empty room behind them, unsurprised when Clint doesn't look back. "No cutesy nicknames." 

"Aw Boss," Clint whines. "Rules already? We haven't even been together twelve mmm..." 

"Months!" Phil hisses, poking him in the back with the corner of his box, making him jump. "I know it hasn't even been twelve months, _Clint._ But if we're going to make this work maybe we _should_ set some ground rules." 

Clint frowns, and Phil feels like he's holding his breath because they _do_ need rules, some kind of reason if he's going to survive this. He needs _something_ with which to protect himself, when Clint has his eyes and his smile and his charm and jesus, his _biceps,_ to say nothing of his self-proclaimed spectacular ass. 

Very suddenly Phil is feeling remarkably outgunned. 

"You're probably right," Clint sighs eventually, stopping to wait for the elevators, neatly hitting the button with his elbow. "We probably need to get our stories straight too, huh?" 

"Might be best," he allows. "We can do that while we get the apartment set up. It's furnished, but..." 

"But it's SHIELD," Clint finishes with a huffed laugh. "Are you bringing your stuff, or...?" 

"Enough to live on. We don't need my furniture and I don't want to give up my own place – it's not SHIELD but it's rent controlled." 

"Nice." 

The elevator arrives and Clint shuffles inside, Phil reaching out to guide him as his vision is still mostly blocked by the boxes in his arms. He very nearly jerks his hand back like he's been burned but it would be stupid to do so – they touch like that all the time, casual and friendly. He can't go cold and withdrawn in an effort to prevent further intimacy; that would be just as much of a red flag as anything. 

Yes, he stands by his previous statement. 

This is really going to suck.

**AVAVA**

It takes everything Clint has in him not to fidget on the ride over.

 _Everything._

Sad really, considering he's a sniper, considering he can stay completely still in the most uncomfortable positions and conditions for hours on end, waiting. 

That's work though, and this, this is so different, so beyond anything he's ever done before... 

This could go so wrong so fast, but in the forty-five minutes he'd had between ending his phone call with Natasha and Phil showing up at his door, he's pretty much figured out that there are only a couple of ways he can really play this. Possible disaster and potential heartbreak seriously limit his options, and the foreboding words of a certain redhead have been echoing in his ears like some kind of threatening conscience ever since. 

Hard to ignore – Natasha Romanov is one hell of a Jiminy Cricket to have sitting on your shoulder. 

So, options. 

And he thinks... 

Well, he thinks the one that scares him the most is the one he's gonna have to go with. 

Scared, hell, he's _terrified,_ but he's always had a habit of seeing a plan through to the end once he's committed to it, and if he's honest with himself, he... 

He's already committed to it. 

So. 

He makes himself a promise. 

No matter what, he... he's going to tell the truth. 

The whole truth and... and nothing but the truth. 

He's finally going to let Phil know how he feels, or at least he... 

He's not going to _lie_ about it. 

Natasha's right – this is as good a chance as he's going to get. He can feel Phil out, maybe get a bit of an idea of what he thinks about all this, about Clint Barton, a _relationship_ with Clint Barton. If it turns out he's not interested, well, then he's got a failsafe, doesn't he? It was just a show, just an act for the op. He doubts that was what Nat had meant but it's comforting, knowing he can save a little face, a little pride, blow it all off as one big joke if the worst happens. 

The thought of that makes his heart ache, even as he sits there in the passenger seat of a SHIELD SUV beside his... his partner? Shit, no. His _handler,_ his _friend._

Christ, it's probably a good thing that Jeffries is a therapist – Clint's got a sick feeling he's going to need it. 

This is going to be such a mess. 

That's him though isn't it; Clint Barton, human disaster, the guy that jumps off buildings without thought for life or limb. He risks his body every day – he doesn't know why he's so much more protective of his heart. 

He can do this though, he can do this. 

It's Phil Coulson after all – even if he can't... shit, even if he doesn't feel anything for Clint like that, he won't be cruel about it right? He won't be vicious, won't hurt him. They'll still be friends. 

Nothing will ever be the same, but they'll still be friends. 

Right? 

"Here it is." 

He doesn't jump, doesn't startle when Phil breaks the silence that has been holding ever since they'd gotten into the car. He'd scored top marks in Situational Awareness, he's a sniper and a Level Four Agent of SHIELD, he doesn’t startle. Just... maybe he'd been a little distracted, a little caught up in his thoughts and hadn't realized that they were already all the way across town, pulling into the parking structure of a tall, narrow apartment building he'd never seen before. 

"Fancy," he mutters, ducking to stare out from under the edge of the windshield as Phil pulls them up and into the covered lot. 

"Not that fancy," he warns, and it's just the tiniest bit stiff, sending skitters down Clint's spine. 

Ever since he'd picked Clint up in his bunkroom he'd been acting weird, like he was uncomfortable with this whole thing, and that more than any other part of this was making Clint unsure, unsure of his plan and unsure of himself. 

"Boss are you ok?" He asks, and it comes out perfectly normal even though his tongue feels thick in his mouth, even though his heart is pounding in his chest. "You seem kinda..." 

Phil sighs, puts the vehicle in park in the space reserved for them according to their lease and kills the engine. 

"I meant to ask you that," he says, and Clint can see the beginnings of a frown threatening the crease between his eyes, a familiar expression. "I know Fury sprung this on you out of nowhere, and it... it's a lot to ask." 

"How do you figure?" Clint asks, because now the confusion is bubbling up inside his belly. 

If he's really been as successful as he hopes in keeping Phil oblivious of his crush, then this shouldn't be any more than a slightly-outside-of-routine op, no big deal. 

"I'm your superior Clint," Phil says, shifting to look him in the eye across the console. "And you've never done anything like a honeypot mission. A Level Seven op – you weren't given much of a choice in this. You're my friend, and I don't want... I never wanted..." 

"Woah, hey," he interrupts, horrified and... touched by what he thinks is happening here, right in front of his eyes. "Phil, all that shit, with me... it was a long time ago. Things are different now – I trust SHIELD, and I trust _you._ You're not, like, pimping me out for information here." 

Phil's chest expands as he takes a deep breath, but there's still something dark in his eyes, worry, maybe. Reaching across the car, Clint wraps his hand around the other man's shoulder, squeezes. 

"It's just undercover," he says. "I've done that before right? Hell, I've been in a fake relationship with Hill before on an op once." 

Now it's his turn to take a deep breath. 

Might as well start this whole honesty thing now right? 

"Look, Phil. If it had to be anybody I'm glad it's you ok? You're in no way taking advantage of me – we got thrown in this together right? I'm glad it's you." 

Phil lifts his head, looks at Clint warily, wonderingly, and well honesty may be his new policy but that was a little too deep, a little too intimate, so Clint flashes him a cheeky grin, undoes his seatbelt, and pops the door. 

"Now come on, I wanna see our new place!


	4. Chapter 4

Phil has to give it to SHIELD housing – it _is_ a beautiful apartment. 

Makes sense; the nicer the bribe you offered someone, the more likely they were to take it. 

It is a bribe too – Fury likes to dangle gorgeous, sun-soaked apartments in front of his agents at good prices because it makes them all the more likely to live there. An agent that lives in a building that is owned and operated by SHIELD is an agent that the good Director can monitor that much more closely – one he can keep an eye on and whose contact with civilians he can limit. 

Sounds a bit controlling, but you'd be surprised how many issues could be circumvented by keeping the two separate. 

"Woah," Clint breathes as they walk deeper into the apartment; all wide rooms and blonde hardwood floors, enormous windows and a beautiful, thirty-fifth floor view. 

Phil can't help but agree – it's bright and open and airy, and he can immediately see how that's going to be a huge problem. 

"You love it don't you?" he asks quietly as he leans against the arch of the living room doorway, watches Clint practically skip to the windows. 

"Coulson, it's amazing!" he declares, all awe and excitement and delight as he presses both hands flat to the glass, crowding in close for an even better view. "You can see half the city from up here! Is that Stark Tower?" 

"Ugh, don't remind me," Phil groans, rolling off the wall and wandering towards the windows to stand at Clint's side. "I get enough of Stark as it is." 

"Gotcha," Clint chuckles, a grin on his face even as he continues to stare out the windows, bright eyes roaming hungrily. "Rule Number Two: Don't mention the S word." 

"Thank you." 

"No worries Boss," Clint shrugs with a grin. "Hey, come on - let's check out the rest!" 

Phil sighs but follows along compliantly in Clint's wake as he bounces back into the kitchen, oohs and ahhs over the admittedly excellent spread of appliances, opening cabinets as he goes. He's waiting, waiting for it to sink in for the archer the way it already has for him, the realization of just how intense this mission will be, but then again, for him, perhaps it won't. 

_Phil_ is the one with the crush, the one who's going to have a hell of a time keeping it professional throughout all of this. 

They've shared bunks before on missions; tiny safehouses, pop-up tents, even an old-school RV once – perhaps for Clint this won't be any more stressful than all those times before. 

Clint – shit – _Barton._

He's off his game already after that little moment they'd had in the car, the open honesty on Clint's face as he'd confessed to trust... 

Maybe it's only _him_ who's dreading the inevitable moment when they both have to... 

"Only one bedroom," Barton announces as he comes trotting back up the hallway, Phil having lingered a little too long to catch up with him. " 'S cool - I can take the couch." 

"No you can't," Phil huffs, rolling his eyes to cut his own well-masked agony. 

Barton lifts his eyebrows but Phil just shakes his head, already resigned to the dull ache taken up residence inside his chest. The archer must read something in his face, in the slope of his shoulders, because he's quiet when Phil leads him back into the living room, flicks on their (exceptionally nice) new flat screen and finds a rerun of Dog Cops, placing an order for Chinese delivery on his phone at the same time. He doesn't ask what's bothering Phil, though he has to see it, just flops down beside him on their (exceptionally nice) new couch, a regulation eighteen inches between their thighs, and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table to settle in. 

Twenty-five minutes later he still hasn't asked, and it's the chime of the doorbell that breaks the silence where Phil had been waiting for some wisecrack that was only half-funny to do it. He answers the door and tips the delivery boy while Clint snags a six-pack out of their thoughtfully stocked fridge, and they naturally gravitate back to the couch like they've done a hundred times before, waxy paper cartons distributed with the ease and familiarity of an old married couple. 

That's why it's so hard, he thinks, because he and Clint _do_ fit together so well. It would be so easy, so natural to take that last step, and yet here he is, an Army Ranger, too afraid of losing _this,_ this easy, perfect friendship, to risk trying for anything else. 

Makes him wonder exactly what it is that Fury suspects, what it is that he knows, because Phil has never outright confessed to anything. The bastard would have laughed him out of the room if he'd ever admitted to pining over their resident sniper, especially after all his denials. Now he's got them stuck up here together in a one-bedroom apartment on a Level Seven op when Clint's only Level Four... 

It's more involved than the Director is usually willing to get. 

"We go to our first session on Wednesday," he says, practically out of nowhere as Clint slurps up that last of his hot-and-sour noodles. "Come on. Let's bring our things up from the car." 

It's strange, feeling so wrong-footed with Barton (Barton, _Barton, BARTON_ ) after having worked so closely with him for so long. Phil nearly collides with him as they move out into the hallway, even though he _knows_ that the sniper is always the first one to step through any door. He gets a funny look for that, and gives himself a mental shake that does little to help him regain his balance. He stares at the man's ass all the way down to the parking bay, doesn't seem able to help himself, then does the same damn thing on the way back up. By the time they're locked back into their new apartment he's ready to kick himself for his nonsense, especially when he realizes he's followed Clint into the bedroom. 

The very, very nice bedroom, largely dominated by a very, very nice King-sized bed. 

"We go to our first session on Wednesday." 

"You said that already," Barton says, chuckling nervously as he rubs the back of his neck, cocks his head to stare. "You ok Sir?" 

"Phil," he says stupidly, before clearing his throat and swallowing hard, heaving his duffel onto the top of the dresser to give his hands something to do. "Call me Phil. We need to practice that, I think." 

"Sure. And you always knew you could call me Clint." 

Phil... Phil hadn't known that. 

He... _had_ Clint told him that? Had Phil been so focused on keeping it professional, keeping it to _Barton_ or _Agent_ or _Hawkeye,_ that he'd never said it out loud? 

Shit, this was gonna be harder than he thought. 

"Clint then," he says, embarrassingly proud that his voice doesn't crack right down the middle. "That's what I meant earlier." 

Clint frowns, thinks about it a minute before shrugging his shoulders. 

"Help a guy our here Coulson," he chides, tearing open one of his boxes and dumping everything out onto the pale grey coverlet. "I'm happy to share with you but I don't _mind_ taking the couch if you're not... cool with it."

"It's not about that!"

It comes out louder than he means it to, quicker, but he doesn't want Clint thinking that he doesn't trust him.

It... it's not _him_ Phil doesn't trust.

He's still facing the dresser, still mechanically folding sweats and t-shirts and tucking them into the left side of the drawers, but he can feel Clint's eyes on him, can feel him waiting for an explanation. It takes him a minute to steady his hands, to sort his thoughts appropriately, but he manages it, manages to find his _Senior Agent_ voice.

"You know I trust you, Specialist," he says, because he's seen how much that title means to Clint and because this can't be personal, can't just be between the two of them. "But we're Agents of SHIELD, all of us in this. Both the agents whose apartments got hit and Jeffries."

"So what?"

"So," he explains, closing the last drawer and turning around to face Clint, who has sat down criss-cross in the middle of the bed and is sorting a stack of paperbacks like they're the most interesting thing he's ever seen. "Think about that living room. What do you love about it?"

"The windows," the sniper answers instantly, his shoulders tight like he thinks that's something to be ashamed of. "The view. The sightlines."

"Yes, and what's the very first thing you do on any op?"

"Recon," he answers firmly, lifting his head as his tactical brain engages. "Observ... _oh."_

"Exactly," Phil nods. "Whoever is doing this, Jeffries or someone else, they know what they're doing. There's no doubt in my mind that he's following our agents, watching them, at HQ and at home."

"You think he'll be watching us," Clint clarifies, his frown going from petulant to thoughtful. "Might still be a good idea – if one of us is sleeping on the couch at least we'll have a reason for going to therapy."

Phil blinks, pauses.

"That's... actually not a terrible idea," he says slowly before shaking his head. "But let's save the big guns. I'd rather have an ace in the pocket if we need it – plus a change like that could tell us for sure if we're under surveillance, if Jeffries is sloppy enough to let it slip."

"Copy that," Clint agrees easily, twisting backward to tuck his books into the drawer of the bedside table. "So, what, we in this all the way as soon as we start sessions?"

"Probably for the best," Phil sighs, scrubbing a hand through is hair. "We don’t know how far he'll go; none of the other agents have found bugs or recording equipment, but..."

"Better safe than sorry," Clint concludes, getting to his feet with an armful of clothes to take his turn at the dresser. "Hey, where are your suits?"

"In the closet," Phil replies, jerking his chin toward the door in the corner. "Fury had them moved while I was at HQ. Still not sure if it was a threat or an incentive."

"Definitely threat," Clint decides with a chuckle. "So. Background?"

"The whole reason we were put on this op together is because we know each other well enough to pull it off," Phil points out, and he's not sure if he's comfortable with that fact or not. "We just need to be ourselves."

Themselves, oh _god._

This time Clint out-and-out laughs.

"Easy enough," he says with a grin, throwing Phil a wink over his shoulder. "I never get to be myself on these ops."

"You don't remember that thing in the Hamptons?"

"Oh screw you, I'm nothing like that jerk. _Chauncey Bristol,_ hell..."

"Interesting," Phil murmurs, flopping onto his back at the edge of the hideously comfortable mattress. "You looked a lot alike. Could've been twins." 

"Har har asshole," Clint deadpans, but he's grinning and that stupid warmth in Phil's belly is back, the same way it always is when they banter like this, when Phil teases him and Clint smiles that smile...

"Fury backdated the lease," he says, swallowing hard. "So I say we go with that. Been living together six months, dating longer than that, but the cohabitation's throwing both of us."

"I leave wet towels on the floor," Clint decides, nodding along as he comes back to the bed for another messy scoop of his clothes. "And drink out of the coffee pot."

"I wouldn't kick you out of bed for _that."_

Phil's eyes go wide and he stares at the ceiling, not daring to move, because hell, why doesn't he just spill his guts right now, but Clint's just laughing, closing the last of the drawers.

"Good to know," he says with a grin, hopping onto the bed and bouncing him on the mattress before he continues. "But who says I'm getting kicked out? Maybe I'm insecure and mad at you for loving Captain America more than me."

"I do _not_ love Captain America more than _you."_

He means it to be indignant, exasperated, even just teasing to match Clint's jab, but the truth comes out far softer and far more honest than it should.

Clint's staring at him, he can feel it, but he refuses to give in and meets his eyes, just continues to stare up at the ceiling, battling down the blush rising to his cheeks.

Eventually the archer shrugs, gathers up the last of his crap from the bedspread and gets to his feet.

"Eh, keep working on it Boss," he says as he walks toward the closet without looking back. "If you can't convince me you're never gonna convince a trained professional."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief references to passive suicidality experienced in Clint's past.

Dr. Jeffrey Jeffries is not what Clint is expecting. 

To start with, he's got an office three blocks away from SHEILD HQ, halfway between the business district and a really nice park. It's a small building, but it's built almost like it used to be someone's home, a ranch-style single-story with a big living room to serve as the main sitting space. It's open and airy and warm, with lots of windows and bright light, and excellent sightlines throughout, no doubt carefully considered given his clientele. 

The man himself is nothing like Clint's seen from SHIELD psych so far, and he's had wide and varying experience. Usually the shrinks are all professionalism and tightly put together – Jeffrey Jeffries is... not. He answers the door in a pair of loose slacks and a cardigan with patches on the elbows, and Clint, who sees better than most, sees through it immediately. The man is sharper than his messy curls and wire-rimmed glasses are meant to imply, a field-trained agent beneath his soft voice and casual body language. He waves them into the sitting room and tells them to take any seat they'd like, then purposefully disappears into a nearby kitchenette for coffee - demonstrating more intelligence and willingness to accommodate than probably half of SHIELD staff in general. 

On the one hand it's nice, gives them a chance to relax for their upcoming session – the psych floor had always given Clint hives. 

On the other, that's not really what they're here for, and Jeffries is proving himself a crafty mark. 

Making a quick loop around the room, Clint is pleased to find that the sightlines are nice and open, and that the long, low couch is positioned to give him a good view of both doors and the wide window while keeping his back safely to the wall. He doesn't spot any hidden cameras, and when he turns around he catches Phil running light fingers along the edges of the end tables, no doubt checking for bugs. He shakes his head minutely and Clint feels his shoulders tighten, because while the lack of surveillance equipment might make most agents here for counseling relax, it only increases his suspicions. 

They only just manage to get themselves appropriately settled (in Clint's inexperienced opinion), when Jeffries steps back into the room. Close but not too close, a couple but not a perfectly happy couple. It's easier to fake than it should be, and as he sinks into the unfairly comfortable couch a careful ten inches from Phil, Clint refuses to consider the fact that this is because, really, that's exactly what they are. Partners, but not _partners,_ friends but not more. 

This was such a bad idea. 

"Cream or sugar gentleman?" 

"Black, thank you," Phil says, taking two SHIELD-branded mugs from the tray the doctor has procured, passing one to Clint in a move that's comfortably familiar. 

Clint takes a sip, mostly to distract himself from the slowly creeping unpleasantness that comes with being in a session, and hums in surprise. 

"SHIELD knows its agents well," Jeffries says with a low chuckle, leaning forward in his wing-backed chair to add a splash of milk to his own mug. "I get an allowance for fresh-ground Columbian separate from my salary." 

Leaning back again, he breathes in the steam but doesn't drink before setting the mug aside, sinking back into the chair in a way that makes him seem like an innocuous little old man. 

"So," he says calmly, folding his hands on his knee. "Agent Coulson, Level Six. Agent Barton, Level Four. I'm Dr. Jeffrey Jeffries, but please, feel free to call me Jeff. I prefer some amount of familiarity; may I address you as Clint and Phil?" 

They glance at each other, a deliberate move that they've pulled before, allying themselves. 

"Of course," Phil demurs when Clint just shrugs. "Anything for rapport." 

Jeffries smirks, casting Phil a little nod of acknowledgement. 

Clint hides a smirk of his own behind the rim of his mug; not even ten minutes into it and he's already having more fun in a psych session than he ever has before. Watching Phil posture and vie for Alpha-ship with this guy is gonna be awesome. 

"Excellent," Jeffries agrees. "Before we begin, I need to go over the standard disclosure statements – I'm sure you've heard them before but I hope you'll humor me for a moment." 

Phil nods and Clint barely holds back a sigh – he has heard the disclosures before, enough times that he could probably recite them himself. 

"Very good. To begin with, everything that is said inside this room remains in this room, with a few exceptions. Outside of those exceptions, anything said will be confidential between the three of us, or between myself and you as individuals should we choose to do a separate session..." 

Breathing out through his nose, Clint slumps back into the cushions and tunes out, unconsciously leaning into Phil's side as he does so that their shoulders touch. Gotta report abuse or neglect, gotta report breach of SHIELD protocol, gotta report any serious suspicion that an agent is unfit for duty, blah blah blah... 

"So. Tell me how you met." 

"Everybody knows that story." 

It's out of his mouth before he knows it, a defense mechanism he's employed for a long time. Paying attention but not paying attention... probably says something about him that he's trained himself to keep half an ear on the conversation so he doesn't get caught woolgathering. Useful skill though - a quick review of what he wasn't listening to tells him that Jeffries has gotten through his spiel on the rules and transitioned into the customary 'introductory' session he's sat through so many times. 

"Well, I'm asking you to tell it to me." 

It's a calm, quiet challenge, but a challenge none the less, and Clint feels himself bristle slightly. Phil's hand on his wrist startles him, as does the warm, gentle smile he points at him, but it's a reminder and a warning to settle down, to remember what they're really here for. 

"That's the easiest question we're going to answer," he says in a tone that's meant to be gently teasing, but instead is a calming order. 

_Get your shit together Barton._

Clint swallows and shifts on the couch, purposefully drawing up his knees in a display of defensive body language. This thing is going to be hard and is going to suck and he's going to hate almost every minute of it, so it's not hard to fake, not difficult to project an air of discomfort with the question, with prying. But he'd promised himself he was going to be honest, so... 

"Phil was sent to recruit me," he says with a shrug, his arms crossed between his knees and his chest. "He did. End of." 

"Well, now I know there's more to it than that." 

"It is true that I shot Agent Barton in the process of recruiting him," Phil allows, sounding entirely unrepentant as he confirms one of SHIELD's more widely circulated rumors. "He was proving... rather more _difficult_ to converse with than I had previously anticipated." 

Clint can't help a smug little smirk, even though he knows Jeffries is watching them. He was damned proud of how well he'd managed to avoid Senior Agent Phillip J Coulson all those previous times, proud of how well he'd spun the story when he'd finally been brought in. 

"You look like you enjoyed being shot more than one would expect Clint." 

"I _appreciate_ a good shot," he says flatly. "Clean through-and-through. Missed the bone, the femoral artery, minimal muscle damage... And all at a dead run across a Turkish rooftop." 

Jeffries tilts his head but Clint doesn't elaborate, more because of his natural reticence with and distrust for psych than because it's a good tactic. He might be committed to staying honest, but that doesn't mean he's going to be easy. 

He's not expecting the next question levelled at him. 

"What was your first impression of Phil?" 

"That if anyone was gonna take me out, I wouldn't mind it being him," he says heavily. 

Jeffries arches an eyebrow but Clint's pretty sure that's not the worst thing a SHIELD shrink's ever heard before. 

"You were passively suicidal at the time?" he asks, but Clint hardly gets his mouth open to answer before Phil's jumping in. 

"There was some... miscommunication about why SHIELD was seeking contact with Hawkeye at the time," he offers, straightening his tie. "Clint was under the impression that my team and I were there to do threat assessment, not recruitment him." 

"Unfortunate, but not an answer to my question," Jeffries argues calmly, and surprise washes through Clint's chest when Phil's eyes go steely and cold. 

"I'm sure you've read both of our psych files quite thoroughly doctor," he says, and this time Jeffries actually has the balls to chuckle. 

"I browsed, yes," he admits, picking up his coffee and taking a long pull before setting it aside again. "But I'm asking for Clint's assessment of himself at the time, not a psychiatrist's." 

"I was," Clint says abruptly, both because it's the truth and he's never admitted it out loud, and because it will stop Phil from pooching this thing before it's even started just to defend him. "I was. Life sucked and I didn't have anything to stick around for, and I..." 

Clint flicks a glance at Phil who's staring at him like he's never seen him before and feels himself blush, rubs the back of his neck. 

"I was taking risks," he says. "If it had happened, I wouldn't have really cared. I just didn't want it getting around that some upstart little punk had taken out Hawkeye. First time I saw him, I figured he was... _worthy_ of that shit I guess." 

Jeffries nods slowly but Clint doesn't really give a damn – all he can focus on is the way Phil's sitting next to him, closer than they ever sit and somehow already feeling farther away than they've ever been, and he _hates_ the way he's looking at him, studying him in silence. 

So he does the other thing that he often does – deflects with humor and charm and cockiness. 

"Second thought was that this guy was sexy as hell," he says with a wide grin and a wink in Phil's direction. "Was never really my thing - the Suit, you know, with a capital S? Obvious reasons, but damn, he handled himself like a field agent. He kept up." 

"And that was important to you?" 

"Not then," he says with a shrug. "It was hot, sure, but it didn't mean anything." 

Jeffries watches him, his level stare somehow far less unsettling than Phil's this time, but Clint's still preparing himself for what comes next, for him to ask how he feels about Phil now, for him to encourage Clint to spill the truth out onto the carpet under the guise of it being a lie and his heart is _pounding_ because he can't... 

"And Phil," Jeffries asks, causing Clint's throat to close up. "What was your first impression?"

**AVAVA**

That he hates this. 

That's his first impression; that this is the single most stupid thing that he has ever done. 

They're only twenty minutes or so into their first session, and he can already tell that this is going to be a total, unmitigated disaster. Jeffries is good, too good, both as a therapist and as a mark, and he's already got Phil's hackles up and his warning sensors blaring, and how the hell is he supposed to do this? 

How is he supposed to pretend that he's in love with this man sitting next to him, that he wants to make it work, when that's exactly what he wants? When that's everything he needs to not say, when he needs to focus on the mission and figure out what it is that the good doctor Jeffries is hiding. 

It's a damned good thing he _is_ one of the best agents in SHIELD, because if he wasn't he'd be in trouble. 

He knows how to get away with a lie, however, knows the tricks. 

He knows you only have to put just enough of the truth into it to make someone believe you. 

"I thought he was being wasted." 

Beside him Clint goes preternaturally still, obviously settling into that detached headspace he falls into when a mark comes into sight of his nest. Phil's seen it before, is able to easily recognize it, is _thankful_ for it most times because it means the job is going to get done, but now it makes his blood run cold. He knows how Clint feels about psych sessions, knows how he feels about having his secrets pried out of him, and what he'd just said, about being suicidal at the time of his recruitment, had most certainly been a secret. Not even Phil had known that, who had both Clint's files and his confidence, and that was saying a lot. 

It's stupid and he knows he shouldn't but he reaches out and grabs Clint's hand, threads their fingers together. 

Jeffries is watching and yes, he'd done it partially for the therapist's benefit, but he'd mostly done it for Clint, who's staring at him with a look in his eyes like he doesn't believe him, like he doesn't understand _why._

"I saw him," he says, forcing himself to look Clint in the eye, because this part, _this_ he needs to hear, "And I immediately knew that he was smarter than any of us thought. Smarter and slicker and braver and _better,_ and he was being _wasted_ out there." 

"I wasn't..." Clint starts, and Phil shakes his head. 

"You were," he insists, "And there's not a day that goes by that I'm not thankful we brought you in. Even if I had to put a bullet in your leg to do it."


	6. Chapter 6

It takes them a minute to recover from that little moment. Jeffries allows it, which shows promise for him both as a therapist at least – _clever, perhaps too clever_ – but the silence is needed, the stillness as he and Clint clear their throats and let go of each other, shift minutely to put just a bit more space between their bodies. They drink their coffee, make ashamed and self-conscious faces at the doctor all for show, and take slow, deep breaths like they need to calm their emotions, the thundering of their hearts. 

For Phil's part he actually does. 

This is going to be so much harder than he thought it would be, because it's real, it's all real and at the same time it's not, and he can already see himself going absolutely mad before this is done and over with. 

He finds himself hoping that Jeffries is a legitimate therapist, because he's going to need it before the end. 

"You two don't talk like this often," Jeffries observes quietly, startling him despite the man's smooth, even tone. 

He bites back a laugh. 

"No," he replies, "No, we don't." 

Jeffries makes a non-committal sound, sets his coffee mug aside and crosses his ankle over his knee. 

"Not that I'm surprised, you understand," he says, like they're all old friends. "Very few people are honest in the minutiae of everyday life." 

Steepling his fingers, he looks them each in the eye and speaks very, very seriously. 

"I set rules for all the couples I see," he explains. "We work them out together, but the two I insist upon are honesty and respect." 

Phil holds back a nervous swallow, refuses to break eye contact even though his whole body has flushed hot and he's experiencing the overwhelming urge to run. 

"Now of course, that can be difficult," Jeffries acknowledges, settling back comfortably in his chair. "Oftentimes those are the exact problems my clients are here to work on, when you really get down to it. But I find that both are absolutely essential to solving problems, to successful therapy and greater intimacy. So." 

He pauses, looks between them. 

"Honesty. With me, with each other, and with yourselves. Agreed?" 

Phil has to bite down a bark of laughter – oh god what a joke it all is – and Clint tenses up beside him, suggesting he's thinking along the same lines, but he manages to maintain a straight face and nod gravely. 

"Agreed." 

"Honesty," Clint adds with a nod of his own, though his voice sounds... strange. "A hundred percent." 

Phil's heart thumps and he feels oddly choked, but they both seem to pass Jeffries' Bull-Shit-Meter. Not good for an agent, but then, Clint can lie like a rug when he needs to, and Phil's no slouch himself. 

"Very good," the man acknowledges. "Respect as well; again, for myself, each other, and yourselves, as well as this physical space and the therapeutic process." 

Once more, they both nod. 

"Excellent. That means we'll be using our inside voices gentleman." 

"Yeah, thanks doc," Clint scoffs, ever sensitive to being treated like an idiot. 

"You'd be surprised agent," Jeffries shoots back easily, placing a pad of paper on his knee and taking a pen from the inner pocket of his sweater. "I've seen it all in this office. Up to and including some truly impressive WWE flying kicks." 

Phil quells the urge to roll his eyes, but Clint's mouth curves the way it does when he's trying not to laugh and Phil feels himself start to relax again. 

"So," Jeffries says again, with a sense of beginning, giving his pen a little twirl with his fingers that suggests knife-throwing skills, "What brings you in to see me?" 

Phil looks at Clint. 

Clint looks at Phil. 

Jeffries barks a short, watery laugh. 

"Ok, let's try an easier one," he suggests, "Whose idea was it to come see me?" 

"Fury's," Phil sniffs, just as Clint shrugs and offers "Boss Man." 

"So not either of yours," Jeffries surmises. "Phil, you sound irritated. You don't think you need to be here?" 

"I think it's cruel and unusual punishment," Phil mutters petulantly, thinking of the amusement in his friend's voice when he'd briefed him on this little 'mission.' 

It's half-hearted, but beside him, Clint flinches. 

"Heh, ouch," he says with a crooked grin when Phil and Jeffries both turn to him, but it doesn't reach his eyes. 

"You know that's not what I meant," Phil says quickly, reaching out to touch Clint's arm because he can, because he _should._

Jeffries shakes his head, makes a note on his paper. 

"Does he though?" he asks. "Part of being honest is saying what we really mean, and elaborating when we're misunderstood. Explain." 

Phil grinds his molars together, the irritation the therapist had pointed out spiking, but Clint has turned his hand into Phil's and is absently brushing his thumb over Phil's knuckles, waiting with his eyes down and his lower lip caught between his teeth. 

_Oh, he's good._

"I just meant that he was smug about it," Phil explains, truth and fiction all at once. "It's none of his business." 

"It's not affecting your job performance then?" Jeffries inquires. "Personal problems do tend to migrate, and given your professional relationship..." 

"I've _never_ taken advantage of my authority," Phil snaps, perhaps a little too vehemently, because the man quirks an eyebrow and makes another little note on his paper. 

"Coulson's always been a good boss," Clint defends, shifting in a way that suggests discomfort. "We work really good together. Delta's the best strike team SHIELD's ever had." 

"Then why the referral?" 

Sighing heavily, Phil lets go of Clint's hand so he can massage his temples. 

"Nick is an old friend, everyone knows that," he explains. "Fewer people know that he likes to be... _meddlesome._ He's a closet gossipmonger. But he's also... concerned." 

"What about?" 

"We... argue, sometimes," Clint says hesitantly after a moment's silence, when Phil fails to find a way to translate 'pining' into something more acceptable, something that fits their narrative. "We moved in together about six months ago..." 

"Congratulations?" Jeffries replies, phrasing it like a question. "That's usually an exciting step." 

"Yeah," Clint says with a smile, his body relaxing and his hands coming up to illustrate his words, the way they do when he's truly comfortable, when he's honest. 

His undercover is a lot better than he's ever let on. 

"It was awesome," he continues. "We got this great apartment; penthouse-style, top floor of the SHIELD building over on eighth?" 

Jeffries makes a polite sound of attention – and oh, Phil could _kiss_ Clint for working that in there – and the man's fingers tick on his pen, but he doesn't write anything down this time. 

"So what happened," he asks casually, watching as Clint's shoulders pointedly curve in on themselves, his head dropping. "What changed?" 

"I... I dunno..." 

"It's... little things," Phil says carefully, watching Jeffries in his turn for a reaction to guide his words. "We're getting on each other's nerves more and more often. He leaves his towels on the floor, and he drinks out of the coffee pot, and..." 

"Yeah, like you're Mr. Perfect," Clint grumbles, shoving stiffly away from Phil and levering himself into the corner of the couch, crossing his arms over his chest, a defensive position. "With your Captain America obsession and your 'Phillip J Coulson, Agent of SHIELD' _schtick_ – god forbid somebody actually see you laugh, or, you know, _gasp,_ find out I'm your..." 

It's Phil's turn to flinch. 

They'd planned this, talked about it, practiced it to an extent, but he hadn't expected it to sting like it does. 

Clint's elaboration on Phil's secret-agent front doesn't help; his aim is impeccable as always, right on the mark. 

"Is this normally how it goes?" Jeffries asks with tactful softness into the tension-laced silence. 

"Yes," Clint mumbles petulantly, following where Jeffries leads. "We... fight." 

"Argue," Phil corrects, keeping his tone flat, even. "It's never become physical." 

"But you lash out at each other verbally?" Jeffries clarifies. "Snap at each other?" 

They both squirm a bit, affecting matching shame. 

"There is... _anger,"_ Phil says carefully, as if considering his words, examining his own beliefs. "We both react badly. It's as if we both know we're picking fights, but we do it any..." 

_DING_

"...anyway..." 

Phil blinks, Clint looks adorably confused, and Jeffries just smiles genially. 

"I set an alarm for each session," he explains, reaching over to his side table and picking up a small, discreet little kitchen timer. "Ten minutes to go. I've found it's a good to give you a bit of time to cool down before I send you out the door. Come back to baseline, as it is. Nice deep breath everyone." 

Phil actually finds himself following the instruction, drawing in a deep breath that stretches his lungs and lifts his ribs. Beside him, Clint does the same, blowing it out between pursed lips, and a tension he hadn't noticed growing in the room snaps. 

"Better?" Jeffries asks, the smug bastard, but Clint's mouth quirks and he bobs his head. 

Actually, Phil kind of _does,_ as much as he hates to admit it. 

Has he allowed himself to go too deep already? 

"Very good," Jeffries says, closing his notebook and setting it aside. "In the short time we have left, I'd like to summarize a bit, make sure we all have a general understanding of what's been said in session. From there we'll make note of the things we'd like to discuss at our next appointment and, in some cases, I'll assign you some homework to finish before then." 

"What? Homework?!" Clint yelps indignantly, forcing a smirk out of the therapist, the most open expression he's given thus far. 

"You're not familiar with that aspect of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy then?" he remarks, and Clint scowls. "Never fear, no arithmetic involved young man." 

Phil barks a laugh, unexpected and bright and happy, and both Clint and Jeffries turn to look at him with surprise. 

"Math is what he's best at," Phil explains, placing his hand on the back of Clint's neck and squeezing gently before letting go. 

It's a gesture that's painfully comfortable and altogether brand new, and he takes his hand back in a way that probably looks like he's been burned, halting. Jeffries cocks an eyebrow, runs a glance over Clint's face, which has gone pink and fidgety, and Phil can practically see him itching for his notebook. 

Stupid. 

"Well," Jeffries placates, dusting some invisible lint from his slacks, "We'll save it for another time. For now we have an idea of why you're both here, and from the sound of things, what the problem is. Having moved in together several months ago, you're finding yourselves brought to anger by trivial things, which has led to increasing arguments. Have I understood correctly?" 

Phil looks to Clint, who meets his eyes; then they both nod. 

"Very good. Then, gentlemen, I would challenge you with this before you go; anger is valid, not real." 

"...Huh?" 

He's glad Clint is the one to say it, because he's feeling just as lost, but Jeffries has a bit of an amused grin on his face. 

"Valid," he says again, "But not real. Consider the _nature_ of anger, gentlemen, and the reason you're both feeling it in those moments. I'm certain we shall have... ample things to discuss when you return next week. I myself find that I have several questions." 

"And on that ominous note..." Clint mutters as Jeffries gets to his feet, a clear dismissal. "Thanks a lot doc. Riddles right out the gate.


	7. Chapter 7

“I think that went well,” Clint says, his hand wrapped around Phil’s as they start down the sidewalk away from the psych office. “He seems to know what he’s doing.” 

“Yes, he does seem very good,” Phil replies, playing along because Jeffries had walked them to the door, and who knew if he was still standing there watching them leave. 

Besides, Clint was good with double-speak, and Jeffries does seem to be very, very good. 

He's already thrown Phil for a loop, and he hates him for that just a little bit. 

“So what do you think it means?” Clint asks as they turn the corner and head toward Fifth, toward their new apartment. “What he said about anger?” 

“I think we should focus on the real questions,” Phil replies, keeping his tone light, but still feels Clint stiffen beside him. 

That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, so when Clint pulls his hand away Phil lets him. 

They’re out of sight anyway. 

“Right,” Clint mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when he’s embarrassed. “So, what? You wanna grab dinner, give him time to scout the apartment?” 

“I doubt he’ll run right there,” Phil says, but his stomach rumbles at the mention of dinner and to be perfectly honest he doesn’t really want to go back to their... back to _the_ apartment just yet anyways. “Well done by the way, working in the location.” 

Clint’s shoulders relax and he grins. 

“Seemed like the best opening we were gonna get,” he says with an easy shrug, but Phil can see the pride brimming up in him from even that small piece of praise. 

God he loves that look on him, loves putting it there. 

He’s going to have to be careful with that from now on, if he doesn’t want to break his own heart. 

“Well, in any case, we’ve given him the address,” he says, pointedly bland and dry as he scans the shops ahead of them, looking for a distraction. “Korean?” 

“Only if they’ve got good bahn mi,” Clint acquiesces, already headed for the door and pushing it open, waiting for Phil to step through first. “Or I’d settle for a decent bibimbap.” 

Once inside they place their orders and settle down in a corner with good sight lines, hot food and savory smells pushing a reset button. They’ve done this before, knees knocking under a table that’s too small, and it’s still intimate but it’s the _right_ kind of intimate between them. They’ve shared more meals than Phil cares to count; he knows that Clint loves the tart, tangy crunch of pickled vegetables and that he’ll always swipe a bit of Phil’s kimchi even if it’s nearly always too spicy for his palette. It’s a different feeling than what had hung so heavy between them back in Jeffries’ office, so by the time they’ve moved on to mango mochi Phil feels like he can breathe again. 

“So we should probably play it like deep cover from now on, huh boss?” Clint asks as he gets to his feet, tossing some stained, crumpled bills down onto the table. 

“Probably for the best,” he agrees as they head back out onto the street. “We can still sweep for bugs – any SHIELD agent worth their salt would do that – but best not to be too thorough.” 

“Act like we’re looking for them but make sure we don’t actually find them?” 

“Exactly. And leave them behind if we do. It’s a bit of a double-bind actually...” 

Phil trails off and frowns, distracted. 

God, isn’t that the truth? 

“Not that complicated,” Clint shrugs, half a step ahead of him and oblivious to Phil’s personal, inner turmoil. “We’re SHIELD agents, so of course we’d sweep our own apartment once in a while, but we actually want to give good ol’ Jeff the chance to spy. So we pretend we’re dating, as SHIELD agents, which we already are. We’d still be going in to HQ every day anyway, so we can work on the real mission there, where he can’t creep.” 

Phil blinks, because, yes, that. 

Not so bad on its own - an easy op - but with everything inside his chest cluttering up his head, it’s not that easy. 

“You know,” Clint muses as they head back toward the apartment at a leisurely pace, “If this guy was any kind of SHIELD agent he would have noticed all our crap moving in.” 

“There wasn’t that much,” Phil reminds him. “The furniture came with the place, and we were fairly discrete. Besides, if he _is_ the one doing this, then he’s been focused on his clients’ homes. We only just started today.” 

“So he wouldn’t have been paying attention,” Clint surmises, opening the door and gesturing Phil inside before following him through. 

Phil catches his elbow as he moves to pass, tucks him in close to his side as he nods at the agent behind the front lobby desk. 

“Fury backdated the lease,” he says quietly, ignoring Clint’s surprise at being reeled in so close and focusing instead on getting them into the elevators and away from listening ears. “And the apartment was empty before us for new plumbing and electric, so even if he starts digging now he won’t find anything.” 

“Convenient.” 

“Yes.” 

The conversation trails off as they get into the empty elevator and ride it all the way to the top, the awkwardness coming back as they stand in opposite corners facing the doors. Phil tries not to think about what it means, what this mission might do to the status quo, but so far he’s not been reassured. The elevator dings quietly as the car comes to a smooth stop and Phil spills out into their little faux-entryway with a profound sense of relief that’s too big for the moment, only just managing not to fumble his fingerprint against the lock. 

“Well, I guess with the lease stuff anyway,” Clint muses, picking up the conversation like it had never stopped, his forehead crinkled in thought as he hangs his jacket and toes out of his combat boots. 

Phil frowns, pauses where he’s lining up his shoes on the rack inside the coat closet. 

“What am I missing?” he asks, because when Clint talks like that, slow and thoughtful, it usually means he’s seeing something Phil isn’t. 

“Huh?” he asks, blinking back to attention before shaking his head. “Oh, nothing. Just, you said if he went digging, he wouldn’t find anything. I just meant he won’t find anything in the lease. He goes digging around in our heads, who knows what he’ll find.” 

“Barton, you run circles around psych,” Phil says carefully, because while he _does_ doubt that Jeffries has had a chance to come in and bug the apartment already, there’s no point in taking chances. 

“Yeah, but we’re supposed to be honest remember?” Clint says with a wink and a roguish grin – message received. 

Phil just rolls his eyes. 

"Come on,” he huffs, “Let’s get some chores done and then we can watch Dog Cops.” 

“Yes dear,” Clint quips. 

Oh god, this op is going to kill him.

**AVAVA**

They spend the rest of the evening settling into a bit of a rhythm. There are a few last cardboard boxes to be unpacked, a few last things to be slotted into place. It really is a nice apartment – Clint could totally see himself living here if he could afford it – and having all their stuff slotted into place really makes it feel like he does live here. As the sun starts to set outside the windows, Phil finishes shelving the last of his jazz records – _in the proper order, Barton_ – humming quietly while Ella Fitzgerald plays softly in the background. Clint parks himself nearby with a load of small weapons spread out over the coffee table, ostensibly performing a routine cleaning, but also soothing himself by going through the familiar motions. It’s not helping a whole lot – he finds his gaze wandering to Phil’s ass more often than it should when he stretches up on his tiptoes to slide a record into place on the shelves built in around the ceiling – but he figures if Phil really was his boyfriend, partner, whatever, then that’s something he’d be doing anyway.

Might as well give Jeffries a show if he is watching. 

Clint sighs, goes back to polishing a Heckler and Koch. 

This whole seeing a therapist thing is going to be very, very bad for his mental health. 

When you think about it, the last thing he needs is a good excuse to justify this mess he’s got going on. 

It's bad behavior really, staring at his boss’s butt when he hasn’t been brave enough to tell him how he feels. 

Kinda like he hasn’t earned the right, you know? 

Which... just kinda sounds creepy. 

“What’s wrong?” Phil asks, with a warmth that’s not entirely new to Clint’s ears. “You keep sighing.” 

“ ‘S just puzzles, you know?” he grumbles, and what, it’s not a lie. 

The corner of Phil’s mouth quirks as he turns around, readjusting the hem of his shirt. 

“Still thinking about what he said?” 

“We should,” he argues, tossing down an arrowhead spitefully. “I hate homework. There’s all this pressure, and expectations that you did it and... ugh!” 

“Relax. We’ve got a week before our next session,” Phil reminds him, leaving his records to come sit on the couch behind Clint’s shoulder. He strokes his hand through Clint’s hair as he passes, and oh god, the things that stirs up... “We’ll figure it out.” 

“You mean _you’ll_ figure it out,” Clint grumbles. “You’re smarter about that stuff than me.” 

“I don’t think so,” Phil says, picking up the remote and turning on the massive flat screen hanging on the wall. “You’re good at puzzles, picking out patterns, calling strategy. And you’re...” 

“What?” Clint asks, focusing hard on the throwing knife in his hands, on not letting his shoulders creep up around his ears. 

“You’re better at people,” Phil says finally. 

“Wait, seriously?” Clint asks, jerking around to stare at Phil in shock. “You think _I_ am better at people than you are?” 

Phil just looks blandly back at him and Clint kinda wants to strangle the guy, to get angry and throw all the good deeds he’s done back in his face. 

He swallows hard instead, tries to compose his thoughts. 

“What I do, with people...” he says slowly, turning back to the weapons on the coffee table because they’re simpler, safer. “It’s easy. I mean yeah, I can flirt and crack jokes and make people loosen up, but it doesn’t _mean_ anything. What you do with people, it... it matters.” 

Phil doesn’t respond, and that... 

Huh. 

It’s weird how all of a sudden he realizes he’s calling him _Phil_ in his head, not _Coulson._

He’s not sure that’s a good sign. 

He doesn’t do a lot of undercover work – he sees better from a distance after all – but it only makes it that much easier to remember all the undercover ops he _has_ done. He’s never sunk into character this quick, this easy, this fully. It usually takes him a week before the op even starts to work himself down into his missions headspace, and that’s with a lot of prep. They hadn’t had dirt for briefing this thing, and the way the lines are already starting to blur between the mission and real life... 

It’s not good. 

Clearing his throat hard, Clint starts to pack up his gear. 

“I need to work on that,” he says, as if Coulson, _crap, Phil_ had been reading a running commentary of his thoughts. 

“On what?” 

“On saying your name. 

“You say my name Barton,” Phil scoffs, shifting his legs off the couch to make room for Clint to sack out. 

“You know what I mean,” he says, pitching his voice soft and tender. Phil blinks at him, but obviously catches on that Clint needs to say something about the mission while keeping it cover-friendly. “I call you Sir and Boss and Coulson... I’ve just been doing it for so long it’s weird to call you Phil.” 

Shaking his head, he shifts sharply, pulls his knees up to his chest and continues flippantly like the conversation isn’t nearly as important as it is. 

“But we’ve been dating for forever. I know it was never a big deal before, but I mean, we’re together, we’re home, they’re nobody else here... I should be able to call you Phil.” 

“Hey, I get it,” Phil says softly, but his eye contact is hard and sharp and direct. “It’s a hard habit to break after so long.” 

“Yeah, that work/home line is a bitch,” Clint says with a sad sort of grin, and Phil shoots him a warning look. 

“Home is supposed to be comfortable,” he points out, reaching an arm along the back of the couch to link their fingers together, which surprises him. They’d talked about listening devices, but Clint hadn’t considered cameras. 

“You should call me whatever you’re comfortable calling me,” Phil continues. “Here at least. I’m not foolish enough to give you free-reign at work. But here, at home... you can call me whatever you want.” 

“You sure about that sugar pie?” Clint asks, because Phil is still holding on to his hand and he has to lighten the mood a little or he’ll crack. 

Phil just rolls his eyes. 

“You can keep calling me Coulson,” he says, pulling his hand away and getting up to head for the kitchen. “Or boss, or sir. I know what you mean.” 

_‘You really, really don’t,’_ Clint thinks miserably as he watches him go. 

“You just want me to call you Sir in bed,” he calls before he can think the better of it. 

He snaps back around to face the TV so fast, ears burning, that he completely misses the way Phil’s steps hitch.


	8. Chapter 8

“So when’s the last time you got angry?” Clint asks, and Phil stifles a sigh, clicking pointedly on the Save button at the top of the Midterm Evaluation he’s working on. 

“I’m getting angry right now,” he says mildly, but Clint just shoots him a glare over the top of his computer. 

“For real though. In real life, what was the last thing that really made you mad?” 

_‘Climbing into bed with you last night,’_ he thinks, but of course he can’t say that out loud. 

“If you want the answer to Jeffries riddle so much,” he suggests instead, “Why don’t you go ask Bobby or one of his other clients? I’m certain he must recycle _some_ of his material.” 

“That’s cheating,” Clint says haughtily, likes he’s never cheated at anything before in his life. “Besides, kind of a breach of confidentiality right, even knowing that her and Hunter go see him?” 

“Not if she’s the one who told you,” he points out, before shutting down his computer and rounding his desk. “Come on.” 

“Where we going?” 

“The cafeteria,” Phil replies. “Then to the range. If we’re going to hash this out again, I’m going to need coffee.” 

Scooping up the stack of files he has on Dr. Jeffrey Jeffries, he waits for Clint to haul himself up off the couch and out the door before following, locking the office behind him. 

It’s not that he hates spending time with Clint, he muses as they walk. He actually quite enjoys it. And really, to be fair, they haven’t spent a significantly greater amount of time together than they normally do. The problem is that Phil spent all of the last few nights with Clint as well; evenings back at the apartment where they’re in each other's space, constantly there. Even when they’re here at HQ, going about their work, even when they’re apart and Clint is doing what he does and Phil is doing what he does, the thought, the _knowing_ is still there. 

Knowing that he has to go back to that apartment and pretend to have the one thing he wants, pretend that he and Clint are in a meaningful relationship and living together happily. 

It sucks. 

They haven’t found any bugs yet – that’s the only thing keeping him sane. As bad as that is for their true mission, he takes comfort in knowing that it’s only been a week. Perhaps Jeffries hasn’t had time to move on them yet – the far more likely reality than Clint and Phil both being unable to find any listening devices he’s placed. He dreads the day they do find one, because then his undercover work and his resolve will really be put to the test. He’d had a vision the night before as he crawled into bed of Jeffries asking them about their non-existent sex life, of having to fake some moans and whispers and cries for the microphones that will probably tear him apart. 

It was one of the worst waking nightmares he’s ever had. 

So. 

Anger. 

He manages to tamp it down as he stands in line in the cafeteria for a piping cup of coffee. It’s well worth the wait – the coffee in the caf is ten times better than any of the stuff brewed in the breakrooms – and Fury had put his foot down when Phil had processed a requisitions form to get one for his office, so it’s been a few hours since his last dose of caffeine. He needs it these days, living with Clint. It’s not fair that things he does, things that would normally irritate Phil to no end like leaving dirty dishes in the sink, seem far more tolerable and stupidly more cute when he’s the one doing them. 

He could live with that though. 

He could live with the way Clint drinks straight out of the coffee pot in the morning if he has half a chance, or the way he leaves his clothes scattered in a trail across the floor when he’s extra tired. He’s known these things for years, known the intimacy of safe houses so very similar and so very not to their situation now. 

No, the difference is that now, he gets to show just how adorable he thinks all that is, gets to show Clint that much more openly what he thinks of him. 

It wonderful and it hurts, and climbing into bed with him every night, waking up to Clint spooned up behind him or sprawled across his chest hurts. 

Phil watches the archer bat his eyelashes and smirk flirtatiously at the lunch ladies, earning himself a thick, fudgy brownie square hot from the pan, and does his best not to sigh. 

“Let’s go,” he says, turning on his heel. 

“You need to get some practice in Sir?” Clint asks, jogging to catch up and tearing his brownie in half, offering Phil a chunk. 

“No, I need you to stop distracting me with Jeffries’ riddles,” Phil says, but he takes the brownie and offers a quiet, sincere _thanks_ to soften the blow. “You think better when you’re focused.” 

“I don’t know if I was just complimented or scolded,” Clint says slowly, confusion crinkling his brow. 

“Better with both,” Phil says, toasting him with both hands, coffee in one and dessert in the other. 

“Right.” 

He doesn’t watch the way Clint blushes. 

Doesn’t watch the way he sucks chocolate off his thumb either. 

He hates his life. 

By the time they get down to the range they’ve both finished their treat and Barton’s wiped his hands off on the seat of his pants. Phil very pointedly doesn’t look, just sets himself up at the table on the far side of the lanes, just behind where Clint normally shoots. He’s practically commandeered the aisle – no one else dares use it – which is probably a good thing because it’s set up for a bow instead of a gun. There are targets stuffed with compacted foam about two hundred yards down range, a respectable distance for any projectile weapon, but just a standard, everyday practice shot for the World’s Greatest Marksman. It expands out to three, four, and five hundred yards when he really wants to test himself, and there’s ballistics jelly set up at the thousand-yard mark should he fancy taking his rifles for a walk. 

While he gets his files laid out in neat stacks Clint pulls a couple of his bows from Hutch, the rangemaster, and slings a belt around his waist to hang his practice quiver from. Phil watches from the corner of his eye while he performs his checks; testing the straightness of his arrows, the sharpness of his broadheads, the strength and stability of the limbs of the first recurve he’s picked up. He dutifully pulls on an armguard and shooting glove, as though Phil isn’t well aware that he often goes without, and squares himself up to the target. 

“So when was the last time _you_ were angry,” he asks casually, when Clint’s loosed about a dozen arrows down the lane, falling into an easy pattern of breathing and movement. 

“I dunno about the last time,” he says thoughtfully, chewing on his lip as he lines up another shot. “But I know about the biggest time.” 

“Well?” 

“Oh come on Phil, you can guess,” Clint scolds, but there’s no heat behind it. “When I found out Barney was helping steal from the circus, that everything him and Trick had ever said to me was a load of shit... yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever been more pissed than I was then.” 

Phil makes a quiet humming sound, afraid that saying more will cause Clint to clam up the way he usually does when someone mentions his circus-history with anything other than cheerful curiosity. 

“Never been so angry,” he says again, quietly now as he knocks another arrow. “What they were doing to Carson, to everybody else who worked so hard...” 

“What about you?” Phil frowns. 

“What about me?” 

“You said you were mad about what they did to everyone else,” Phil points out, paging through the file in his lap, the picture of nonchalance. “What about what they did to _you?”_

Clint scoffs, switches out one bow for another. 

“Didn’t really surprise me,” he says, which is just horrible in and of itself. “Hell, at the time I didn’t even really care. Barney stuck that knife in my back, literally and, you know, _metaphorically,_ and I just...” 

Pausing, he lowers his bow, relaxes the tension on the string and chuckles. 

“You know I probably would’ve just shrugged if I wasn’t balled up in pain.” 

And well, Phil doesn’t really know what to say about that. 

For a while silence reins and Clint keeps shooting, Phil keeps paging through his files. When it becomes clear that he isn’t going to reciprocate with a story of his own, Clint huffs and hangs his bow on the rack, stalks over to look at all the papers Phil’s got spread out on the table in front of him. 

“What are you doing anyway?” 

“Looking at the files of the agents whose homes were broken into. They’re all active within SHIELD, but none of them work the same type of missions. The only connection we can find are that the homes all belong to couples that go see Jeffries – he's the _only_ common denominator...” 

“No he’s not.” 

“What am I not seeing?” Phil immediately asks, sitting up straighter. 

“Here,” Clint says, pointing over his shoulder, then leaning in close to move some files around, heat and muscle pressed all along Phil’s side. “Burke and Holzhäuser, and Marino. They were all on downtime when their apartments were broken into.” 

Phil frowns, shuffling his papers. 

“That doesn’t make sense – why would he wait until they were all on down time and guaranteed to not be at HQ or on mission? That increases his risk of being caught by...” 

“A lot,” Clint says simply, “Unless he knows where they _were_ going to be.” 

“Explain.” 

“Doesn’t Simpson live in one of the apartments that got broken into?” Clint asks, referring to one of his fellow snipers. “Couple months ago he spent like, three weeks bitching about some retreat he was getting sent on with his wife. He was pissed cause he’d wanted to use his downtime to go fishing up in Canada.” 

“So what, Jeffries is monitoring their vacation destinations?” Phil asks, more to himself than anything, but Clint still shrugs. 

“Dunno. But it’s a place to start right?” 

“A very good place,” Phil agrees, looking up to smile at Clint and getting a wash of heat beneath his skin when the archer looks away bashfully and rubs the back of his neck. “Well done Barton.” 

“Where you going?” he asks when Phil stands and starts collecting his papers. 

“To talk to Fury,” he explains. “I need to requisition some extra files and get someone assigned to speak with the agents who were victimized in more detail than they already have been.” 

“Want me to come?” 

“No,” Phil responds, hopefully not as quickly and loudly as it he feels he did. The last thing he needs is to be stuck up in an office with Clint _and_ Fury – god knows what the man would say in front of mixed company. “No, he’s in a bad mood after budgetaries this morning; I’ll spare you the snarling.” 

“Aw, you do love me honey muffin!” Clint squeals exaggeratedly, batting his eyelashes. 

Phil just rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll see you later,” he says, tucking his files under his arm. “I should be ready to go by seven.” 

“We’ll both go by six and catch dinner in the caf before we leave,” Clint corrects, and Phil would argue but he’s already turning away picking up his bow again. 

“Six then.” 

He doesn’t notice the way Clint’s head swings around, the expression of surprise on his face. He's too busy hurrying away, out of the range toward Fury’s office up on the fifth floor. He doesn’t want to think about the way it makes him feel that Clint had gotten him to concede so easily, that he cared enough to drag Phil out of the office at a decent hour and make sure that he eats in the bargain. He doesn’t know that’s why he’d done it of course – Clint could just want to make sure that he himself is fed and in bed before midnight – but it’s hardly anything new. He’s brought Phil coffee before, and takeaway when he’s been in the office too long, cajoled him into a nap on his couch. It’s got nothing to do with any romantic feelings, got nothing to do with the cover they're playing at or the way a partner would behave. 

Phil scolds himself for romanticizing practicality as he steps into Fury’s office, nodding to his secretary Ms. Pool as he passes her desk. 

He ought to be focusing on the task at hand, at figuring out exactly what it is Jeffries is searching for in their agents’ homes, if he is indeed the one committing the break-ins. 

Things aren’t looking bright for the good doctor at the moment. 

“Coulson,” Fury rumbles as he closes the door behind him, not bothering to look up from his computer screen. “Where’s your boyfriend?” 

“Har har,” Phil replies flatly, sitting down across from him. “Hilarious.” 

“I thought so,” Fury says, turning to face him with the wide, toothy grin of a shark. “Want to tell me why Barton’s been running around terrorizing my agents all week, getting everybody riled up about the last thing that pissed them off?” 

“Just some ridiculous thing Jeffries said,” Phil answers flippantly, strangely desperate to get on to the real issue. “A homework exercise. I don’t know why it’s put such a knot in Barton’s bowstring, but he’s trying.” 

“You should be too,” Fury says coldly, shooting Phil a glare. 

Phil scowls right back at him. 

“I am,” he replies just as frostily, leaning forward to thump his stack of files down onto the desk. “I need the agents whose homes were burglarized interviewed again, and I need a copy of their duty schedules.” 

Fury stares, for a long time, and a heavy feeling of dread settles into the pit of Phil’s stomach, the feeling he gets when he knows he’s made a mistake. 

“Fine,” Fury finally concedes, grabbing a post-it note and scribbling down a password. “Get me a list of the information you want and I’ll have Sanchez go back and interview again, but it might take a while.” 

“I’d think you’d want this problem taken care of immediately Director,” Phil hears himself say, as sweet as arsenic, before he can stop the words from falling out of his mouth. 

“I’m not worried,” Fury scoffs, waving a hand airily. “You’ll figure this out eventually, and the guy obviously hasn’t found whatever the hell he’s looking for in the meantime. Call me crazy but I’ve got this weird faith that I’ve trained my agents well enough not to go leaving important information lying around.” 

“Jeffries is one of your agents,” Phil points out, wondering, not for the first time, what the hell the man is looking for in the first place. 

Vacation time aside, there are no connections, no similarities in which agents' homes had been broken into, nothing to suggest if it’s a document or a weapon or information being sought. 

A chill tickles at the base of his spine. 

“You know Director,” he says slowly, eyes narrowed as a sudden, horrifying idea dawns, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think perhaps you made this whole thing up out of some misguided matchmaking ambition...” 

Fury snorts derisively. 

“But you do know me better,” he replies in a painfully unimpressed tone. “I prefer the direct approach, always have. When I finally do get fed up with you and Barton mooning after each other, and I will, I’m much more likely to knock your heads together, have Romanov steal your pants, and lock you up in a closet until you’ve resolved your differences than to fake an op.” 

Phil grinds his molars, anger flashing hot across his body, because his old friend has never been good at veiling threats. 

“Jeffries needs to be investigated Coulson,” Fury growls, no doubt well aware of just how irritated Phil is with this whole thing. “But, two birds with one stone. He’s a good shrink; saved me more than one pair of good agents in the past.” 

“Barton and I aren’t a pair.” 

Fury barks a laugh. 

“Bullshit! Maybe you’re not actually dating – god knows you’re both too damn stubborn to do anything the easy way – but you and Barton do have a relationship. All this crap you’re working on, whatever little exercises he’s got you playing at, those are real tools.” 

Fury pauses, looks him full in the face and stabs a finger in his direction. 

“Don’t fuck this up,” he warns. 

Phil swallows hard, unsettled, because he doesn’t know what his old friend is referring to anymore, doesn’t know what he’s thinking or what he has planned. 

Standing, he collects his files, offers him a firm, silent nod, and leaves his office, feeling more lost than when he came in.


End file.
